


triumvirate

by bellmare



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Community: badbadbathhouse, F/M, Multi, Oedipal Issues, caught in a bad romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/bellmare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like the Yomotsu Hirasaka again, where they’re one step from parting ways, one step from repeating the mistakes they made before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	triumvirate

**i. _despair_**

She chooses him because he’s too broken and disenchanted by a world which sees no use for him, because if she doesn’t there’s nothing really left for him to reach out towards. He’s almost glad when her fingers graze his palm and the power sparks and blooms in the recesses of his mind, grateful because at last he has a purpose, which is more than what anything ever gave him.

 

Though he’s filled with coldness and misery and the sharp, persistent urge to hurt and maim in return for the hand fate has dealt him, she sees enough potential in him, sees enough of her husband in him to grant him the fragment of power he possesses. Izanagi, too, was selfish and foolish, to betray her and leave her with the same bitterness and despair festering and growing and taking root in the marrow of her bones. She hates him because he reminds her too much of herself, disillusioned and forgotten by the world, because he reminds her too much of her husband, who was weak and cowardly enough to run from her and forget his promises.

 

If she hates the world and the life her husband has given it, he hates her for who and what she is—a cold bitch who controls his every move, a heartless puppeteer who makes him dance at her every whim. If he kills, he kills for her, snuffing out the life of too-beautiful girls created mockingly in her image, a weak, faded mortal parody of the splendour which was once hers. If he kills, he kills also for himself, to erase the memory of too-beautiful girls who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

 

There are some things she cannot deny, though—sometimes, she misses the proximity of the one who left her behind; sometimes, she wakes to the bitter realisation that they’re now worlds apart, that nothing would ever be able to bridge the rift he created from his folly.

 

So she lets herself dream—if goddesses can dream.

 

He comes to her, descending through the Yomotsu Hirasaka, retracing the steps his other self once took—only this time, he won’t leave, this time he’ll be hers to keep forever because they’re equally ugly, equally corrupted and corroded by a world which rejects them.

 

But Magatsu Izanagi is not the same as Izanagi. They are two sides of the same coin, and she always finds herself yearning for the other.

 

Still, she can forget herself in their ruse when he forces her back against a wall, the slats digging into her spine. She can easily make out his face through the mist and fog, but he’s blind without her guiding touch and they both know it—if he doesn’t play by her rules she can just as easily leave him here, until he forgets himself in her world and she finally drags him down into the Yomi. Pale imitation or not, he will have to do as a substitute of the one she really wants.

 

Unlike her, he doesn’t like to play. He likes to get straight to the point, and when he kisses her all she tastes is rust and ash and blood as she bites down and he spits, trying to claw free from her grasp. He flinches as she drags her fingers through his hair and scratches, hard enough to leave marks, almost hard enough to draw blood. He curses, snarling her name as she pulls savagely and wrenches his head back, almost enough to snap his neck if she were less mercifully inclined, and splays her hand against the paleness of his throat.

 

He starts to laugh as she tightens her hands around his neck, idly wondering how far she has to go until something gives way, until something pops and splinters beneath her fingers—his are short, mirthless barks which bleed into wheezes as she grips harder and he slashes at her wrists, smearing blood over her skin. “You still need me,” he pants as her thumbs hover over his windpipe, poised to crush. “You can’t kill me yet.”

 

It would be so easy to, because she can always find herself more pawns, but then where would she find one created in her own twisted and despondent image?

 

“One more chance,” she agrees, and he smiles thinly.

 

It’s only because of the fact that in part, he’s a reflection of her husband that she allows him to pull her down, pinning her arms to her sides with his knees. She almost laughs as he places his hands against her neck, as though steeling himself to repeat what she did to him before. “You wouldn’t dare,” she whispers, and she can feel him shaking because they both know she’s right, and his face is closed and expressionless as a mask as he trails his fingers down her body, as though trying to convince himself that her illusion’s real, that there isn’t rot and sickly heat and bones beneath the fragile veneer he sees.

 

She sighs at the back of her throat as he maps out her body, as if he’s reassuring himself—or his other self, she doesn’t really know—of something. He doesn’t stop until his fingertips brush against her thighs, and even then he looks at her with hooded eyes, like he’s got something to prove and he’s deciding whether to go through with it or not. Then his tongue flicks against old burns which still smart and sting even now and she decides, she doesn’t want whatever he offers, because it only reminds her too much of that which started it all.

 

“No,” she says coldly and he’s almost relieved when she pulls him up by his wrinkled, dishevelled tie and kisses him, sloppy with saliva and blood.

 

There’s an aching edge of familiarity when he pushes into her, and for an instant she can almost forget, can fleetingly imagine someone else in his place and that this once upon a time was routine, that is wasn’t some grotesque act they’re persisting in now. Then the pain begins and he bites her, holds her in down as she bucks and curls towards him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he attempts to rear back from her. “I won’t,” she hisses between her teeth as he struggles and tries to pull away, “let you escape from me again.”

 

She circles his arms and chest and laces her fingers behind his back as he goes stiff against her, voice echoing in her ears in a disjointed yowl as he comes—and then the disappointment sets in.

 

Izanami detangles her limbs from his as he slips onto his back, gazing sightlessly up at her with clouded eyes. “You are not him,” she says in a voice brittle as glass as she smoothes the silk of her shroud, hiding the smears of dull red daubed across her skin. “You were never him.”

 

*

**ii. _emptiness_**

 

She chooses him because he’s the perfect vessel, hollowed out with nothing left inside of him. He hates the world and himself in equal parts, and perhaps he hates her too, for lifting him out of his life, for making him extraordinary. She chooses him because of his reflection, of the knowledge that maybe, perhaps, he will follow her to the very deepest, darkest recesses of the Yomi, just as he wanted to before.

 

He is not his father.

 

“Will you follow me, Susano-O?” she whispers to him as he dreams, as his mind lingers uneasily in the monochrome twilit fog between consciousness and sleep. He trembles when her fingers circle his wrists and she just _holds_ him in place, feeling the pulse that beats beneath his skin as she unhooks his headphones from around his neck. “You were the only one who wept for me. Will you come to me now?”

 

He never answers her—not in resolute terms she can easily accept. Sometimes, he agrees too readily, too feverishly keen to appease her, to savour the sweetness of her time and attention, all denied him in the dreary reality outside of her real. Sometimes, he touches her hand and kisses her fingertips, whispers, “beloved mother” and lets her lead him into the night.

 

Other times, she can see the misgivings in his eyes, the fear of betraying his friend (disobeying his father) and watching his world go up in flames. Other times, he struggles and pushes against her will, and only then she can see all too clearly he doesn’t really want to hurt others, to hurt his friend (her Izanagi).

 

It’s during those times that she gives him a taste of what could be his – cold fingers twined with his, her breath against his cheek, her lips pressed against the column of his throat. Sometimes, she lets him feel like he’s in control, lets him take the initiative as he slips her shroud from her shoulders and follows the curve of her neck with his tongue, running his teeth over her skin. She lets him dig his nails into her back and push her down, allows him to kiss the curve of her cheek and the shell of her ear, lets him tangle his hands in her rainwater-damp hair and caress her, heedless of the way her illusion wavers in the wake of his touch, allowing him a momentary glimpse of what she really is—bones and death, wrapped in a skein of shallow beauty.

 

He’s never truly rough with her, because somewhere deep inside he’s still a boy, not wholly consumed by scraps of emptiness and shards of hatred. He’s almost gentle when he slides into her and just _waits_ , staring into her eyes, as though she needs to dare him into action.

 

If that’s what he wants, it’s what she does.

  
“Too weak,” she laughs, soft and mocking as his palm slides against down her temple and towards her chin. “Too afraid,” she smiles as he pushes his fingers into her mouth. He doesn’t even flinch when she bites him, the satisfaction congealing in the pit of her belly as his mouth tightens and he pushes against her, nails digging into her breast.

 

She likes it when he acts like he’s got something to prove, when he kisses her fearlessly, tracing down the side of her throat and licking the cleft of her collarbone, tongue lapping idly at her breast, mindless of the way his fingers dip when he runs them over her ribs. She likes it when he slides his fingers into her, face skimming over hers as he nips at her ear, her chin, her jaw—only then does he reward him, only then does she wrap her arms around his head and kiss him, tongue sliding between his teeth as she tells him over and over, “you’re the only one, the only one who cared enough”.

 

“What will you do if your friend discovers your betrayal?” she asks him as he bears down on her, gripping her forearms hard enough to bruise. “Will you rule alongside me, child of emptiness, when you are cast away from your world? Will you be mine, Susano-O, as your father was not?”

 

“Yes,” he coughs when she clenches around him, blinking blood and sweat from his eyes as she smoothes back his hair from his forehead, leaving streaks of scarlet in the wake of her fingertips. “Anything—anything you wish.”

 

Most of the time, she lets him enjoy his little illusion, his fantasy of being the commandeer, the leader in their twisted little dance—she lets him pin her against an endless floor of red and black, lets him set the pace as she rises to meet him, until she tires of the charade they play. _Then_ she twists just as he pulls away, shaking and panting, and slams him against the ground, hard enough to feel the bones in her arm jarring from the impact. _Then_ she arches against him as he thrusts against her, strained and sweating, and the only thing in harmony is their snarling, harsh and guttural as she bends to kiss him, savouring the taste of him on her lips. He’s nothing like her husband—rainwater and iron and the crispness of ozone in the wake of a lightning strike—but she can enjoy that, too, because he makes her remember a life far removed from the decay and despair of the Yomi.

 

He surprises her when he comes, bowing his head to rest against her shoulder, the beginnings of a choked sob leaking from between his clenched teeth. She feels the wetness of tears against her bare skin and forgets her contempt long enough to tip his chin back with her forefinger and thumb, intrigued by the way he still looks so calm and possessed even as she brushes away tears with her fingertips.

 

“Why do you cry for me?” she asks, because she doesn’t understand—he’s supposed to hate her for everything she’s done, hate her because of what she’s given to him.

 

He smiles faintly and grasps her wrist, pulling it away from his face. “Because you are always alone. Because no one else will.”

 

*

 

**iii. _hope_**

****

She chooses him because he is most like what she’s been searching for, all those long and lonely years as she tries to understand what humanity wants from her. She chooses him because he is most like her husband as she wants to remember him—stoic, loyal and fearless, because he rings closest to the truth she wants the most to embrace.

 

Even after she’s destroyed first his enemy and then his friend, his resolve doesn’t waver. She knows he’s watched as she’s led them to their doom, like little toy soldiers blindly following the orders of a pitiless queen. He’s the last to fall and succumb to her, because he’s stronger than the others are, far stronger than they ever believed themselves to be.

 

She wonders what he dreams of, when she doesn’t visit him in the night—when he doesn’t come to her realm of pathways of fog and deceit, perhaps he dreams, of happier times and happier things, when the fate of the world didn’t rest on his shoulders, when he didn’t realise those around him were destroying themselves from the inside out as they danced to her caprice.

 

“You won’t succeed,” he tells her softly, in a carefully-controlled voice too flat and neutral. “I won’t allow you to.”

 

“You think you can stand in my way, child of man?” she asks him, because she wants to know what makes him different, so very different from the others she built up and broke down.

 

He doesn’t move even as she circles him, slow and ponderously, as though they both have all the time in the world. He doesn’t speak as she tightens the trail she weaves around him, until she’s close enough to touch him, close enough to hear his breath hitch in his chest as she rests her palm against his cheek, so warm and alive against the coldness of her skin.

 

“I made you into who you are,” she says as she tightens her grip. His only reaction is a slight irregularity in the rhythm of his breathing as she wrenches his head down until she doesn’t have to tilt hers up to meet his eyes. “I can take away everything I gave you, just as easily.”

 

Perhaps it’s because of that which cuts off any protest he might have when she pushes down the sleeves of his jacket and slides her hands under his shirt, relishing the feel of his body beneath her hands. Perhaps it’s the threat of being further under her mercy which makes him comply when she pushes him to the floor, even though it would be within his power to fight back. In a way, she’s grateful that he doesn’t struggle like the others before him did, allowing her to caress the sides of his face as she kisses him, first along the jaw then on the temple, and finally on the lips. She’s pleased when he winces only slightly as she presses him against the ground, one knee digging into his stomach, the other between his legs as she works his pants off him and takes him in her hand, stroking him with a touch as light as the mist around them.

 

She swallows his groan hungrily as he jerks up towards her, running her tongue across his teeth as his eyes flick half-shut, gaze dark and unfocused. Izanami wonders what she looks like to him, whether he can see through her trickery and deception because he’s the one who is most like her husband, not blinded to the truth as her other two pawns were.

 

“You are only human,” she breathes as she laps at him. His hips jump and he gasps out her name, only this time it doesn’t sound like a curse. His hands settle on her shoulders, and then twine loosely in her hair, thumbs tracing circles against the back of her neck. “And yet you are more than just a mere man.”

 

“You were always mine,” she murmurs as she rises to kiss him, letting him taste himself on her lips. “Even when you ran.”

 

He’s close by the time she lowers herself onto him, and for a moment she’s content to rest her head against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart – something she can no longer hear in herself – as he shudders inside her, barely holding on to his self-control.

 

“Izanagi,” she whispers as she moves against him, feeling his muscles spasm beneath her, his breath against her skin as he murmurs meaningless words into her ears. “ _Izanagi_.”

 

This time, it’s a different battle they wage—it’s more than just blood and pain, more than just the bitter triumph she feels when she bites hard enough to mar the smoothness of his skin in an effort to scar what can’t be hers, what will never be hers. It’s more than the twinge of pleasure she feels when she pushes back against him, trembling at the sensation of his uniform against her thighs, the coldness of his belt buckle against her hip—theirs is a battle of wits and endurance, to see who will submit first.

 

When he comes, he’s almost quiet—the only sound he makes is a soft, staccato gasp, teeth clicking around the noise as he clutches at her, lacing his fingers with her own. The victory tastes sour at the back of her mouth, because she knows that at the end of the night, they will be but mere hours from their final confrontation, and inevitably he will forget whatever was forgiven and undone in their dreams. He will defy her again and the memory of their final minutes spend together will slip from his mind, no more tangible than her presence in his dreams.

 

Whichever way she approaches him, she will lose.

 

Her Fool blinks hazily up at her as she releases him, stepping away from him and into the emptiness of the world where she will wait for him.

 

“Thank you,” she says from between her teeth, “for carrying out your role so well.”

 

It feels like the Yomotsu Hirasaka again, where they’re one step from parting ways, one step from repeating the mistakes they made before.

 

He props himself up with his elbows, hair mussed, clothes in disarray, breathing hard as he attempts to gather his wits. “I won’t fight you,” he says quietly, and if she closes her eyes, she can almost deceive herself into believing he means what he says.

 

She meets his pale eyes for what will be one of the last times. “Liar,” she spits, softly, venomously, knowing the hollowness in her chest is the only thing she hasn’t imagined. “Once a liar, always a liar.”

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://badx2bathhouse.livejournal.com/543.html?thread=319519) prompt on the P4 kink meme. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Hmm... Challenge!_
> 
>  
> 
> _I want to see a relationship, any relationship, cast into Kismesis territory._
> 
>  
> 
> Also an indirect fill of [this](badbadbathhouse.livejournal.com/846.html?thread=3296590). (We can blame Susano-O for any pseudo-Oedipus Complexes here.)
> 
>  
> 
> _Izanami/Yosuke. Mindfuckery like woah._
> 
>  
> 
> _This anon got bored the other day and looked up Susano-O on google. It turns out besides getting kicked out of heaven for pissing everyone off (mostly Amaterasu), he decided to become the lord of Yomi (ie, the underworld) 'cause apparently the underworld > the seabed/ocean (LET POSIEDON TAKE CARE OF THAT, DAD). That another story said that when he came into being, he mourned his mother's death _
> 
>  
> 
> _And who else resides in Yomi and could count as his mother? :P_
> 
>  
> 
> (I am horribly fond of hateships.)
> 
> (For the record, this has been a clusterfuck of sad blackroms.)
> 
> (And I regret nothing.)


End file.
